Just Walking Home
by gschelt
Summary: AU: In the year 1942, all Quinn is supposed to feel is gratitude towards the boys who left school to serve overseas. All she feels is jealousy. Faberry, angsty oneshot.


_**Author's Note:** This is for tumblr's Faberry Week prompt number 5: World War 2. Reviews are always appreciated!_

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There are a lot more girls-only show choirs at Sectionals this year. About half of them are. The music, theme or not, is largely patriotic, too. A lot of "we support our boys" business; the whole thing seems like fawning to Quinn. She sways in the background as she always does, moves her mouth hollowly along with a sentiment she can't identify with, and cheers halfheartedly with the rest of them when they win first. The rest of the girls in the club see this victory as a tribute to their _brave, heroic_ boyfriends, but can't enjoy it without them. Tina bursts into tears as soon as she sets foot back on the bus.

Oh yes, we support our boys all right.

"We're all so very proud of Donald." Russell Fabray beams over the dinner table that night at his wife and two daughters, raising his glass of brandy in a toast.

Abigail, three years Quinn's elder, gives a simpering smile and sips from her own glass. Ever since her husband had left with the Navy for France, Quinn's perfect older sister had been living with them, taking a part-time job as a typist downtown. Quinn had hardly seen Abigail at all since she'd graduated high school and married Donald, but not much has changed; she's still as proper and effortlessly feminine as she'd always been, all powder and pastels. Quinn simmers jealously, hating that _that's_ the standard her mother has set for her.

"Indeed," Russell goes on, "nothing quite tests a man like the fires of war." He knocks on his knee, and his wife Judy smiles proudly at the hollow echo it produces. A "trophy" from his tour in Germany during the first World War. "Serving in combat is the bravest, most honorable thing a man can do."

Quinn stews silently in her seat at the table, glass of milk untouched, feeling like the child that's excluded from adult conversation. Seventeen years old and still the baby of the family. The youngest, the black sheep – she's always felt this way. There is always pressure to be more like Abigail, but it's never been that easy for Quinn, which is annoying in its own right. What could be so hard about wearing a brighter shade of lipstick, batting her lashes, finding a nice boy to hang on? It's such a dull, clockwork routine that Quinn must be a moron not to get the hang of it. Because she's trying, isn't she?

She was trying when she joined the Glee Club, but then again that was her mother's idea. A more ladylike pursuit than tennis, she'd said, and that was that. Through no choice of her own, Quinn had joined, but it's not like either of them had known that she would fall further into the trouble that Judy was trying to prevent.

"May I please be excused?" Quinn asks as politely as she can. Russel and Abigail frown at her, and Judy looks aghast.

"But you haven't finished your potatoes."

"I'm not hungry," she grumbles, staring at the pleasant china pattern sitting in front of her.

"All right," Russell sighs, nodding at the staircase. Quinn jumps to her feet and leaves the dining room, unable to stand the conversation any longer.

"Is she dating anyone?" comes Abigail's hushed voice floating through from the dining room. Quinn freezes halfway up the stairs, her hand stilling on the banister.

"No," she hears her mother reply hesitantly.

"Well, why not?" her sister hisses, "Donny and I were _engaged_ when I was her age."

"I don't know," Russell responds in a low voice. He sounds tired.

"Don't you think something might be _wrong_?"

Quinn's had enough of eavesdropping. She can feel the tips of her ears burning and her pulse pounding. Fuming, she stalks the rest of the way up the stairs and escapes into her bedroom.

The Glee Club finds out the next day that practice has been canceled.

"You deserve it," Mr. Schuester says with a grin, hefting the impressive trophy they'd taken back to McKinley over the weekend. "You kids did an exceptional job, especially given how hard I know it's been." His gaze, traveling over the risers where all of the members sit scattered, rests briefly on Rachel Berry, who smiles weakly. Over half of the girls in the club have sweethearts who are away in the service, but it's clearly hit Rachel the hardest. Her boyfriend Finnigan Hudson – Finn for short – had proposed to her just before shipping out to France. Now they're engaged, and the pretty little brunette has seemed to ache in her fiance's absence every day since the tall jock has left. Quinn can only go off appearances, though; it's not like she and the other girl ever really speak to one another.

"And a special thanks," Mr. Schuester continues, "to Artie. We couldn't have done it without you." He gestures to the boy sitting in a wheelchair near the front, and a smattering of applause echoes around the room.

Artie plasters a forced smile on his mouth and gives a short wave. It's undeniably true that they couldn't have won Sectionals without him; most of the other show choirs didn't have _any_ boys among them, and McKinley was lucky enough to not only still have one around, but also have one who is such a talented singer. Still, Quinn can't help but feel that it's been a hollow victory; they win because one of their boys is crippled and had no choice but to stay behind? And while the others – Finn, Sam Evans, Michael Chang, even Noah Puckerman – are lauded as heroes every day, Artie Abrams gets a bit of petty credit for having polio and stocking their performances with a solid tenor? The boy must be humiliated. It's not fair.

It's not fair, what high school has become in this wartime twilight. Trophies and honor roll don't count anymore if you're not off risking your neck. No one can compete with that. If you're physically present and visible, you don't even deserve a second thought. It makes Quinn sick.

Automatically, she glances across the room at Rachel Berry. The brunette stares straight ahead and listens to their teacher attentively, her full cherry-red lips pursed and her long dark lashes fluttering every now and then. The coral-colored dress she's wearing meshes wonderfully with the tanned hue of her skin, her slender bare arms and her smooth, smooth neck… No, no, _no_. Quinn crosses her arms abruptly but casually, grips her left bicep, and presses her thumbnail into the tender skin there, just half an inch below the capped sleeve of her navy blue dress. She has to punish herself for letting her mind wander where it does, it's all she can think to do anymore. What goes on in her head just isn't right.

Mr. Schuester claps his hands together, no doubt dismissing them, and everyone shifts in their seats as they make movements to leave. Rachel's first movement is to twist her gaze from the front and look around, and she happens to look to her left first, and she _happens_ to look across the room right at Quinn, and Quinn happens to have not quit staring at her yet, and Quinn's arm stings as her thumbnail digs in further. Their eyes meet, and immediately Quinn looks away, heat rushing to her cheeks. She doesn't know if Rachel is still watching her, but her ears are prickling self-consciously so she tries to pack up her bag with as little haste as possible. Fumbling with the clasps for only a split second, Quinn shoulders her bag and breezes out the door before Rachel even finishes packing hers.

She should have never joined the Glee Club.

Hardly anyone ever talks to her; she doesn't have any friends in the club. Then again, she doesn't really have any friends at the school anymore. She'd been close with two girls on the cheerleading squad, Santana and Brittany, but when war was declared just before Christmas last year, they'd dropped out of school by the time second semester started. The two seventeen year old girls left for Phoenix, Arizona, where they'd heard women were being recruited and trained for a new branch of the military called the _Air Force_. Quinn has only received two letters from them in the ten months since then, and she misses them quite a bit. It's lonely without them.

Quinn exits the high school from the south door, the one closest to home. By late September it's still very warm, and the sun beats down on her as she cuts across the south lawn, dress swishing. Several beads of sweat slide from under her carefully-coiffed curls and down the nape of her neck. As she rounds onto the concrete walkway in front of the school's lawn, Quinn recognizes an unmistakable figure rolling forward about a half dozen paces in front of her. Quickening her step, she approaches the wheelchair-bound boy.

"Hi," she greets simply, falling into step beside him.

Artie looks up, obviously surprised behind the lenses of his glasses. "Hello."

"Why are you looking at me like I'm a martian?" she asks, frowning.

"I'm not!" Artie says quickly, arms steadily pushing the wheels of his chair. "It's just…" He glances at her, looking for an excuse. "Your arm is bleeding."

Quinn practically jumps, and sure enough there's a thin trickle of dried blood on her arm where she'd pressed her nail. "Oh," she mumbles. "Must have been the edge on my locker." She'd no idea she was squeezing that hard.

"But besides," Artie continues after a moment, "You've never spoken to me before. I dunno, no one ever really expects a girl like you to talk to a fella like me." He stares at the sidewalk sheepishly.

Quinn snorts before she can stop herself, more out of sheer disbelief than anything else – is the kid _blind_ too? Artie's gaze snaps back up to her. "What?" he demands defensively, clearly misunderstanding the sound as laughter.

"No, it's not like that," she reassures. "I just don't get what you mean, 'a girl like me'. How is that a good thing?" Sure, Quinn's not ugly or anything; in fact, she thinks of herself modestly as rather pretty. She's got shiny, honey-blonde hair, a decent complexion, and the dresses she wears are rather cute. Still, she doesn't compare to _any_ of the cheerleaders, those girls who look like movie stars and don't even have to _try_. Quinn feels awkward and boyish next to them.

For the second time, Artie stares at her uncomprehendingly; they pass through a stretch of shade before reaching a deserted street corner and crossing together. "I mean, you're the most sought after girl in school," he says finally, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You're absolutely gorgeous, and no one can figure you out. That drives guys crazy. Any one of them would kill to take you to the Homecoming dance."

For the second time that afternoon, Quinn blushes furiously. She's not used to hearing compliments, and she doesn't know how to respond. Several seconds pass, and Quinn opens her mouth again. "I don't really care about that," she confesses soberly.

"What do you mean?"

Quinn shrugs. They go by a barbershop, and three cars rumble past. "I just feel like everything has changed. All that seems to matter now is what's going on overseas, over _there_, and none of this stuff at home, or at school, even feels like it counts anymore. Who cares about Homecoming when the football captain is in a trench somewhere?"

Artie is quiet for a moment. "I understand that," he admits. "I feel it too."

"Like in Glee Club."

"Yeah. Definitely in Glee Club."

Now Quinn is silent for a few seconds, mulling over the thoughts in her head. They'll be coming up on her street soon, she realizes.

"Do you wish you could have gone over there with the rest of them?"

"Honestly?" Artie bites his lip, still wheeling forward gamely. "I absolutely do. The guys I grew up with are heroes, and I'm stuck here, stuck twiddling my thumbs in this chair. I feel like a joke."

Before she knows that she's going to say it, Quinn admits, "I wish I could join up too."

Artie looks at her strangely. "You?" he asks, puzzled. "Why?"

"I don't know." She heaves a sigh and stares across the street at the florist's shop. "Same reasons as you, sort of. I think I'm jealous."

There's a heavy pause. "You're a lot different than I thought you'd be," Artie observes, shaking his head.

They reach the corner, and Quinn stops short. She doesn't know what he means by that, if it's a good thing or a bad thing, and she doesn't know what to say in reply. Instead, she opens and closes her mouth a few times. "I, uh, this is my street." She backs away a few steps. "I'll see you tomorrow, Artie." With a short wave, she turns on her heel.

"'Bye," comes his voice behind her, over the crisp _clack clack clack_ of her shoes on the pavement. She wonders if she'd said too much.

Two days later Quinn stands at her locker after Glee Club practice, anxiously tearing through her locker. _That's not very ladylike_, her mother admonishes in her mind. Looking up and glancing down the dim and deserted hallway, Quinn growls in frustration. Her mother wouldn't be saying that if she knew what her daughter was looking for, but then again Quinn would much rather not think of it. It would be much worse.

Judy Fabray had come into her daughter's bedroom the night before with her grandmother's bracelet, claiming that Quinn would "look much prettier with a good string of pearls." It's not her fault her mother had _insisted_ she wear the bracelet to school; she didn't even want to wear the clumsy, rattling thing. But now she's lost it, and she knows she'll get blamed. She'll be absolutely _reamed_ for misplacing the heirloom, and right now Quinn is on the brink of panicking. It's nowhere to be found in her locker.

"I had it at lunch," she mutters to herself, hands stilling their activity in the small metal cubicle but eyes darting around as she mentally retraces her steps that day. It _could_ be in the restroom – yes! Quinn distinctly remembers taking off the bracelet to wash her hands. It must be in there. Affording herself a small smile of relief, Quinn shuts her locker and heads towards the girls' restroom.

It's strange to walk the hallways after hours, when the lights are shut off and no one's around, but Quinn's not the type of girl to get scared for no reason. She breezes around a corner, her pale green skirt fluttering around her thighs, and pushes through the heavy restroom door.

Quinn immediately freezes when she enters the beige-tiled room. Much to her surprise, there's someone there, leaning against the sinks. Much to her great surprise, the girl is Rachel Berry. And much to her tremendous shock, Rachel is _crying_.

When Rachel looks up to see Quinn standing there, mouth agape stupidly, she begins to hastily swipe at her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Quinn says jerkily. "I – uh – didn't know anyone would be in here."

"It's alright," Rachel sniffs, carefully dabbing under her eyes without smearing her mascara. "God, you must think I look like such a fool."

"No!" Quinn says quickly. "You don't." In fact, Rachel looks absolutely beautiful, even when she's been crying. Her dress – black and white polka dots today – hugs her slender frame in all the right places, scooping at her neckline to reveal two delicate collarbones, and the tears in her eyes cause the brown orbs to sparkle more than usual.

"Thanks," the brunette replies, smiling weakly. A stray tear rolls down her cheek.

"What's wrong?" Quinn asks hesitantly, moving a few steps towards the sinks. She wants desperately to comfort the other girl, to get the courage to even put a hand on her shoulder, but that doesn't happen. "Is it Finn?"

For some reason, Rachel chuckles wetly. "The problem is that it's not."

Utterly perplexed, Quinn feels her brows knit together. "I don't understand. What is it then?"

Rachel turns and looks Quinn in the eye again. "You don't have to listen to me," she says sadly, almost shyly. "I don't want to force you to pretend to care."

"I'm not pretending," Quinn blurts, anchored by Rachel's clear brown eyes. She still can't believe that they're having a _conversation_, and such an intimate one at that. "I know we're not friends, but… I like you," she admits.

Rachel's gaze sweeps Quinn up and down appraisingly, thoughtfully. A thumb swipes across her chin. Finally, "I like you too," she replies softly. "And I trust you."

Something warm, like bathwater, blossoms in Quinn's chest. They've never spoken before and yet Rachel _likes_ her and _trusts_ her. Somehow, she feels honored.

The tiny brunette takes a deep breath, glances at the stalls in front of her, and then back at Quinn. "You don't have a steady, do you?" she asks abruptly.

"What?"

"And you don't really date at all?"

Quinn blinks, caught completely off guard. She feels herself coloring, cheeks stinging from embarrassment as they always do whenever someone points this out. Still, a small part of her feels inexplicably flattered that the other girl has taken notice of her and knows things about her. "Well, I guess not."

Rachel nods slowly, turning back to the stalls. "Is it nice?"

"Is it nice?" Quinn echoes, still confused. _Isn't_ this about Finn? "I don't know…" She chooses her words carefully. "I suppose it sort of is. I don't have to worry about someone else's feelings. I don't have to worry about being anything for someone else, either."

Rachel worries her bottom lip and looks back at Quinn, and her eyes are welling with tears again. Quinn has no clue what's the matter, but she longs to fix it and comfort the other girl. The protective urge rises up so quickly that it surprises her. "Hey, now," she says awkwardly, looping one arm around the brunette's back and resting her right hand on the brunette's closer right shoulder. "Don't cry."

"I just feel like I need to be missing him _more_," Rachel confesses, voice thick from tears as she relaxes into Quinn's unsure arms. So it _is_ about Finn. "I should be pining after him, counting the days until he comes home, but… but I can't help feeling _relieved_ that he's not around. That I still get to look the part of dutiful fiancée, but I…" Quinn feels the brunette shudder against her. "I don't have to kiss him. It's a wonderful sense of freedom, but I _know_ I shouldn't feel it. I don't know what's wrong with me."

Quinn's heart is pounding as hard as if she'd run a lap around the track. The prettiest girl she has ever seen in her life is pressed flush against her, burning through her blouse, skirt, and skin every inch where they touch. It's an innocent, comforting position they're in, but her hands feel like clumsy bricks where they rest on Rachel's back and shoulder, essentially _hugging_ her close, and Quinn doesn't know how to react. She doesn't know what to make of Rachel's confession either, but the intimacy and the faint familiarity of it has run Quinn's mouth dry.

"You just make it look so easy," Rachel finishes quietly, wiping her eyes.

"I've never thought about it that way," Quinn replies slowly. Indeed, after years of feeling pressure from her parents and peers to date boys, to appear _normal_, it would never occur to her that anyone would yearn for the opposite. That someone with a secure steady would desire her independence. Suddenly Quinn is struck that… that maybe Rachel is _like her_. That the feelings she knows she shouldn't feel are the same as Quinn's, and that's why she doesn't want to kiss Finn. It makes sense, but Quinn doesn't dare believe it. She can't build up hopes that it's true, that the stunning, flawless, very much _engaged_ Rachel Berry is hiding the same secret.

"Finn's a lucky guy," Quinn says simply. She believes it wholeheartedly, and can't think of anything else that makes sense to say in this moment.

Rachel smiles modestly and looks at her knees, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks. "You really think so?"

"I do."

"Well, thanks." Rachel shifts ever so slightly in Quinn's arms, and it's enough of a movement to cause the blonde to quickly draw them back to her sides. The tiny brunette flashes a small smile. "You know, I actually feel better. Thanks for listening, Quinn."

Quinn really doesn't feel like she did much aside from awkwardly pat Rachel's shoulder and stammer, but if in doing so she really was able to comfort the other girl then she feels infinitely grateful. As though it is some sort of privilege. "Anytime," she murmurs, voice softer and gentler than she'd intended, and leans against the sink, watching Rachel as the brunette touches up her makeup in the mirror.

When she finishes, Rachel pauses and fishes in the pocket of her dress. "I found this on one of the sinks earlier. Is it what you came in here looking for?"

It's the pearl bracelet, sitting real as can be in Rachel's palm. Quinn had completely forgotten about it. "Yeah," she replies, her stomach settling in relief. "Thank you. I was really worried about losing it, it was my grandmother's." She holds out her hand for the bracelet, but instead of giving it to her Rachel moves closer.

"It's really pretty," she admits genuinely, moving to clasp the bracelet around Quinn's wrist herself. Quinn stands still, letting it happen, and figures that the brunette has never looked prettier than she does now, head bowed in focus on her task with a small smile on her red lips. Goosebumps break out across the blonde's arm as Rachel's fingers linger, delicately grazing across her skin and fine blonde hairs. Her breath catches in her throat as she realizes that Rachel could have finished seconds ago, and that there's no _way_ the brunette doesn't notice the goosebumps peppering her skin.

That breath disappears when Rachel, brow knit in rapt concentration, slowly trails her fingers up the length of Quinn's arm, as though marveling at the feel. Automatically, the blonde's other hand twitches and bumps against Rachel's other. Brow still knotted together, lips parted thoughtfully (or is it skittishly? can Quinn hear her rabbit heart beating from where she stands?), Rachel's eyes flicker to Quinn's mouth four times. Like slow motion, she leans in and gently presses her mouth to Quinn's.

The barely-there kiss feels so divine that Quinn's knees nearly buckle. Of their own accord, her fingers grasp loosely for Rachel's, tangling carelessly. She can't think of anything more wonderful than the way that Rachel breathes in little warm puffs against her mouth, but maybe just the fact in itself that the air is playing against the paper-thin slick skin of _her_ lips is even better. She's acutely aware of just how intimately, vulnerably _close_ their bodies are, and of how extremely _wrong_ this is… this kiss. They're kissing, Rachel is kissing her. Rachel Berry. Beautiful Rachel Berry. The words race around her head like morse code. Her lips close ever-so-gently around Rachel's bottom lip, and she feels the brunette tremble.

It's right, more right than anything, but it shouldn't be.

Still, it's Rachel who pulls away first. She hitches back a few inches, eyes fluttering open to stare at Quinn's mouth as though still unconvinced that it's tangible. They stand still close to one another for a few moments, and Rachel slowly looks up into Quinn's eyes. She steps back shyly.

"I shouldn't have done that," she sighs, bringing a hand up to her temple. Quinn just stares.

"Right," she agrees woodenly, hearing her voice as though through a long tunnel. Of course Rachel shouldn't have done that. She's engaged, and needn't be kissing _anyone_, much less… a girl. It's just wrong. An impulse Quinn has been trying to ignore for months now. She feels an overwhelming yearning surge up in her chest, threatening to propel her back across the sinks to Rachel's warm body, and it nearly splits her in two. _Wrong_.

She doesn't move. But she doesn't leave, either.

It's Rachel who leaves. Rachel, the instigator, the one who made the first move. She looks around the tiles of the restroom, opens her mouth as though to say something, and then gives Quinn a brief nod of acknowledgement before breezing out the door. Just like that. Once she's gone, Quinn deflates, slumping against the sink she's been melded to this whole time.

She knows without a doubt that the whole thing was a mistake, but that doesn't stop how crestfallen she feels that it had to end so abruptly. Or at all. Quinn doubts Rachel will ever make eye contact with her again, and she heaves a sigh.

A minute later Quinn exits the restroom, ready to go to her locker, gather her things, and finally go home. It must be nearly five; her mother might start to worry. Much to Quinn's surprise, though, when she pushes through the heavy swinging door she finds Rachel there, leaning against the wall right next to it. Waiting for her.

Rachel doesn't look at Quinn right away. She stares at the hard yellow tiles of the hallway floor, worrying her bottom lip below her teeth. That same lip that Quinn had taken in her mouth like ice cream. Quinn watches the brunette patiently, anticipating something she can't put her finger on. Finally, Rachel's wide, unsure brown eyes sweep up and anchor Quinn's.

"Can I walk you home?" Quinn offers simply. Rachel regards her for a moment; after what seems like an eternity, she nods.

Side by side, the two girls set off down the dimly lit hallway. Quinn's hands itch for movement – for contact – alone at her sides, but this is just walking home. It's just walking home.


End file.
